


Return

by ladyarchaeopteryx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:16:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarchaeopteryx/pseuds/ladyarchaeopteryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a bit of fluff. I am 98% positive that when Sherlock returns for real in S3, John will punch him in the face (and no one can blame him for it XP). I thought, however, that I would write something a little sweeter in the meanwhile. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return

He studied his reflection in the mirror, looking for some change. Surely there would be some evidence of all that had happened, all the grief and the hard, endless days and nights. Cold, clear bright eyes looked back at him. His pale skin was less pale, his face a little thinner, and there were a few more lines around his mouth, but none of these faint, superficial alterations, even put together, conveyed the full complexity of what he felt. He was unsure how to describe it, how to identify it, when the observable signs were so wholly inadequate. 

He turned to look at John, asleep on the sofa. He slept the restless sleep of a man pushed to his limit, his expression tired even as he dozed. Sherlock approached and lowered himself down onto his knees beside the other. If anyone had come into the room just then, they might have thought him praying over the other man, so still and silent was the scene. 

Sherlock was not praying, but was instead watching John's troubled face. As always, the doctor was an open book to him. In him he saw the things he had been searching for in his own reflection. There on his brow was the stubborn disbelief; in his closed eyes, rolling under their lids, was the struggle for some peace; his mouth was twisted with grief and in the soft sigh of his breathing was the sound of loneliness. Sherlock shut his own eyes a moment in the face of the other's pain, feeling its echo within him. 

He wondered, not for the first time, how such a seemingly ordinary man could have woken the heart he never knew he had. The attraction, that was nothing to him. He was attracted to the other due to certain chemical reactions combined with the mutual feeling of trust they shared. It was the unexpected helplessness that John aroused in him that had startled him, and it was the supreme confidence John inspired in him at the same time that had confused him. He could not define it, but he did not fight it. And now, here he was, his love--it must be love, it fit all the descriptions he had gathered on the subject--stronger than ever in the face of this good man. The good man he had so badly hurt. Would those eyes, when they opened, turn hard and hateful? There was a good chance of it, he knew. But Sherlock was not interested in being anxious over what the reaction might be--only in ending the pain he had been the cause of for so long, in a man who deserved better. He lifted one hand, outstretched fingers reaching towards that grief-lined face. Fingertips brushed the skin, warm and real.

"John."

Eyelids relaxed and then screwed shut more tightly, before relaxing again and lifting slowly. The eyes beneath were glazed in dreams. At once they cleared and the pupils dilated, punctuated by a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock drew back as John struggled to sit up, the colour draining from his face.

"It's all right," Sherlock said quickly, grasping his arm to steady him. John stared into his face, his breathing strained. He swallowed hard twice before Sherlock realized he was fighting back tears, and he squeezed the other's arm as his own chest tightened unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry. I had to," he said simply, bracing for the other's anger. But John only leaned forward and put his arms around Sherlock, pulling him down into a hug.

"I don't care," John said quietly, and Sherlock could feel the wetness on his cheek where it touched his own.

"Sherlock, I don't care. I don't... Thank you," he said around a drawn breath. 

Sherlock had no words for this. He was at a loss, vaguely confused until the memory returned to him--John standing before his grave, asking him to please give him one more miracle, to just not be dead. In those few private moments, as he watched hidden behind a nearby tree, Sherlock had discovered he had a heart after all when, with a few pained words, John revealed it to him by breaking it. 

His friend was still hugging him, clutching him as though he might change his mind and leave again. Sherlock had never really understood hugging. It seemed to him an invasion of space and a waste of time, but now, in John's arms he felt his body respond, relaxing into the warmth and familiarity of the man he had so badly been missing. Tension drained from his muscles and heat gathered in the depths of his stomach, filling him with a kind of comfort he had never known before. He tentatively returned the embrace and John pulled him even closer.

"There _is_ an explanation," he felt compelled to say.

"Yes," John agreed. "Later. I'll want one later."

Sherlock nodded. John's breath was hot against his throat. He gave no signs of being ready to draw back. Sherlock wondered how long the gesture was meant to last.

"I'm not letting go of you until I feel like I can look at you without making a fool of myself, so just...deal with it," John told him, his voice thick with tears and affection. Sherlock felt a faint wry smile touch his lips as the other deduced his thoughts.

"All right," he said quietly, and kissed John's hair. The doctor sighed gently, expelling his grief before drawing in the scent and presence of the other.

"If you let go of me, I'll make us tea, and tell you everything," Sherlock offered after another moment. He heard John laugh faintly, and thought it the most pleasant sound he could ever remember hearing. Drawing back a little, the doctor looked up at him and smiled so sweetly that Sherlock nearly kissed him. But then John said, in an ironic tone,

"...we're out of milk."

And then, giggling like boys together, they drew close, foreheads touching, the last of the tension between them dissipating like so much smoke.


End file.
